


Crown of Love

by meli_fan



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, also featuring quiet brooding conflicted gendry cause that's my junk, because no one seems to think my baby is destined for that, queen arya au BECAUSE I COULD, the possibility of smut in this wip chased me like a demon with blood lust so I HAD TO I HAD TO
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 09:27:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6278941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meli_fan/pseuds/meli_fan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arya is Queen. But queens never get what they want, do they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crown of Love

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I apologize in advance for any mistakes in terms, grammar or typos. You all know English isn't my first language.

It feels so wrong when they crown her. _It is Robb they want_ , Arya thinks as she stands surrounded by kneeling lords, _it is Robb and Grey Wind._

 

“Winterfell!” were shouting some men, along with loud chants of “Winter is Coming!” and “Queen in the North!”

 

Gendry gives her one look, one look which she can’t decipher but of course makes him look stupid. He just… nods at her, and somehow Arya manages the strength to accept what the lords are saying.

 

It’s full of people kneeling, and swearing fealty they had already swore to her months ago in Winterfell (in some cases even before that) and gods be damned, get dressed in finer clothing. Arya spends even more time in councils and greeting people than she did before. It’s insane, and it is so good to be in Nymeria’s mind at night. Her direwolf runs free as she hunts, while Arya feels the burden of her position every morning as she opens her eyes.

 

It takes two full days before she sees Gendry. She has managed to escape her own guard to be alone for a moment, and he’s coming from the woods. “Hey” she calls out, startling him. He turns and nods at her, and  Arya notices he seems sullen. “What were you doing?”

 

“Pissing...” Gendry answers shortly. A  beat passes before he seems to realize something. “...your Grace.”

 

“Don’t be stupid.” She rolls her eyes- she has never wanted him to call her any titles.”What bothers you?”

 

“Nothing, your gra-”

 

“Don’t you dare!” She warns. Arya doesn’t know what she prefers, to be alone with her thoughts or to be irritated by Gendry’s behavior. Neither seems particularly entertaining.

 

“Nothing, Arya.” Gendry lets out a sigh before he sits on the grass. Arya stands there feeling awkward at the way he is staring up at her. “Well, you’re gonna tell me what is bothering you?”

 

“Nothing,” she mimics his answer as she flops next to him. It feels nice to be sitting next to him, as if they were the kids from before. She gives him a soft pat on the knee and he nearly jumps at the touch. “You’re gonna tell me what is up, or what?”

 

“We shouldn’t- you shouldn’t..” Gendry is as red as a wild berry now. “You’re not suppose to be here.”

 

“Haven’t you heard?” She jokes touching her stupid crown. “This is my kingdom now too.” Not really. Not all lords of the Riverlands had come to kneel yet, so far Arya had the North and two

thirds of the Riverlands. The Northeners had been impressed with her justice on the Boltons, but the Southeners would need more than that.

 

“That’s not-” Gendry looked at her with that irritated yet melancholic expression again. “You’re not supposed to be here with me, your Grace.” He spats out finally, his hand motioning her crown.

 

She can’t even stand the crown on her head. Her mother clung to it until the very last moment, when Needle pierced her still heart until what remained of life finally gave away to death. Arya remembers crumbling to the ground at the moment, and faintly a scream that seemed to come from within herself. She can’t remember taking the crown, or whatever happened to the body. Someone - most likely Gendry or Harwin - had taken her back to camp, but Arya only remembers waking up in tears and her uncle Brynden giving her a sad smile from a chair.

 

“Oh.” Is all she manages to say. She doesn’t know why he cares about those things if she has told him time and time again that it doesn't matter to her.

 

“That’s all?” Gendry asks half jokingly. “All this prodding and all I get is an ‘oh’.”

 

“Is not like I want it!” Arya was seething, and perhaps for the first time she let out some of the frustration at the situation . “I most certainly don’t want it.” Gendry gave her a smile of slight amusement. “Seven hells Gendry, don’t laugh! It’s true! I never wanted to be a lady, and now I’m a bloody Queen.”

 

“Yes. You are.” He said softly, and whatever amusement he had found before he seemed to have lost. Arya did not know what was going through his mind, but she knew that all these past days have felt like nothing more that a string of self doubt and turmoil.

 

“We will still be friends right?” Arya reaches for his hand. They are not soft, they have callouses and burn marks. But they’re gentle. Arya not used to gentleness, and it nearly makes her shiver. “You’re such an important friend to me.” She’s not afraid to admit it. If Arya had the chance, she’d go back in time and even tell Sansa that she loved her dearly every day.

 

“Of course.” He squeezes her hand, and smiles reassuringly, but Arya is sure there is some form of disappointment in his face.

 

*/*

 

 

 _This is a mistake_ , she thinks on the march.  There is talk of dragons in the east and if there’s one thing Arya learned of Braavos is that dragons are not something to jape about. _A Northern king knelt once_ , she’s musing over the possibility a hundredth time, _now a queen will do so as well_.

 

She hates the bloody thing. It’s too big for her head and it falls a bit awkwardly above her eyebrows, the little iron sword sticking her skin. At the end of the day inside her tent, she tosses the piece of metal away as Nymeria follows her. The direwolf always senses her discomfort, because it curls up next to her and licks her forehead as if she knew, she knew Arya did not enjoy it.

 

“It’s not that the rest of the Riverlands lords don’t accept you as queen, is just that they’re scared to swear fealty in another foreign ruler.” her uncle said sullenly, as if expecting her to be angry. “They want peace and being so close to the capital and Casterly Rock…”

 

“I understand, I understand.” She waves her hand at her uncle, feeling rude but so very tired. She lets her head fall to her hands and the damn crown falls from her head to the table, then rolls to the ground. Arya doesn’t even bother to pretend like she cares. Her uncle fetchs the metal piece and goes to stand beside her, looking at the mess of maps and papers in her table.

 

“It wasn’t easy for Robb either.” Uncle Brynden says, his hand suddenly on her back. Arya did not know she could be moved by a person putting her hand on her back, but she is. Being Queen is more lonely that it seems. “But you’re a Stark of Winterfell, you will survive. And you remember our Tully words.”

 

“Family, duty, honor.” Arya repeats as easily as the little girl who received her lessons from Maester Luwin, wishing to escape and follow Robb and Jon around the courtyard.

 

“This crown is all those things to you. Don’t let it go so easily.” Arya forces herself not to cry, because she doesn’t want a piece a metal. She wants to go back in time, to her real family, in her home. She’d be a dutiful daughter to her mother and as honorable as her father.

 

All Arya has now is a burned castle, which she tries to rebuild to is old glory. And rooms filled with the ghosts of her dead parents, her dead siblings. And a crown of bronze and iron.

 

Her bannermen want Robb back, the Young Wolf riding to battle, fierce and ready to claim vengence upon the Lannisters. Now Arya needs to get vengeance the Lannisters after she is done with the last of the Freys. She needs to prepare her people for winter and restore the Riverlands back to what it was before war. She worries for the common people as much as she hates the greedy lords. She longs for home as much as she needs the peace of proper justice being served. Arya curls up in her bed and slips into Nymeria with ease.

 

She’s aware that she looks horrible the next morning, and when Gendry rides his horse next to her on the procession, Arya can finally stop pretending she does not feel miserable. Gendry just rides silently next to her, and his eyes seem to evaluating her so intently that she snaps at him.

 

“What? Aren’t you going to say that you’re not supposed to be here?” From her horse, Arya can touch Nymeria’s fur, and she grabs to it let go of her frustration. The wolf sends her one reproachful look before she moves closer to Gendry. “Traitor.” Arya mutter to herself.

 

“I’m not. Do you want me to leave?” He asks, and she notices he’s not trying to be difficult.

 

“No,” Arya answers honestly. “Don’t be stupid.”

 

“This rain won’t help in the siege.”  Gendry offers as a way of conversation and Arya is glad for it. Anything to distract her of her thoughts.

 

“It won’t be a long siege.” Arya is certain of this. Her men will use the usual strategies, but she was not beyond other means to get herself inside. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you stay safe. You’ll be in the back. ” She tells him, and Gendry seems slightly bothered by this. “You’ll have to give your horse to someone in the vanguard when we storm in but-”

 

“And where will you be?” Gendry asks with such an impertinence that she’s shocked as much as she’s pleased. Everyone treats her with too much respect, she misses being Arya Underfoot or Arry and everyone treating her with familiarity. “In the vanguard?”

 

“Once the gates are opened and we’re to storm in… then yes, I will.” Arya is not afraid, but she can tell he is.

 

“You could get hurt.” Gendry wears his anger on his sleeve, and is obvious to Arya he dislikes the idea.

 

“Since we met, I’ve always being on danger of getting hurt, so stop looking so angry about it.” Arya tries to reason with him. He’s too stubborn for logic, though.

 

“Yes, but this is actually putting yourself in danger.” Gendry retorts.

 

“What do you care?” Arya snaps, upset at being treated like a fragile doll by the one person who had never seemed to consider her such. Gendry seems taken aback by her question, and shakes his head.

 

“I’ll join you in the vanguard,” he says stubbornly and before she can open her mouth to protest, he’s struggling to make his horse turn. “I’ll go look for Lord Glover, tell him I want to be in the front.”

 

 _Stupid_. Arya thinks. He’s going to get himself hurt and will only manage to worry her.

 

Getting Riverrun back is, in fact, exactly as Arya predicted. While not precisely easy, it is a short siege. The Frey and Lannister armies posted outside the fortress are defeated with little bloodshed. Not before scaring them with Nymeria to find out several things about the number of soldiers, the weapons. She doesn’t care for any of it though. Hidden among her infinite questions was where were the soldier’s barracks.

 

Arya did not need to use another face to sneak in that night. She wore a plain torn dress, found herself swimming like she did back in the Wolfswood with Jon, and sneaked inside the castle. Robb was born in Riverrun, and she used his strength to avoid being captured as she poisoned the soldiers water, as well as their barrels of wine and ale.

 

The next few days, the enemy soldiers were too weak, and with the siege, their food was scarce. The siege lasted less than a fortnight. When they stormed inside the castle walls, The fight was quick.

 

And yet, somehow, despite it all and in the thick of it, Arya felt the pain of a well placed crossbow arrow in her left , between her neck and where the collar of the chainmail started. It pierced deep in her, and she lost air almost immediately. As she felt herself fall backwards, she saw her guards surround her and of course, Gendry.

 

 _He is here, stubborn fool_. But he didn’t get hurt, Arya did and it pains her so badly, that he was right.

 

“Arya.” His voice is almost soft, and she’d laugh if it didn’t hurt so bad. “The battle is almost done, we’ll go back for the maester.”

 

She knows she mumbles something, but the pain is so big and it’s so difficult to breath with that thing there. She knows she can’t get it out or she’ll bleed out, but she wishes it’d stop. Arya is was never afraid of dying, but right now she is. She feels like crying, because she did not see Winterfell rebuilt and she did not arrive in time to see if the boy claiming to be Rickon was really him or if the voice she heard in the Godswood was truly Bran’s.

 

Rough fingers grab her hand as she’s placed in a litter and she’s set on the ground. She hears the men running in different looking for the maester. She hears Gendry praying, and she notices he’s not praying to his Lord of Light, but to the Mother, the Father, the Warrior, anyone who is listening.

 

“I wanted to ride with you…” she manages to say, and it feels so real now. Riding in the woods like an outlaw, Gendry by her side.

 

“Don’t talk, save your strength.” Gendry says, and she feels his hand on her hair too, trying to tame the hair loose from her braid.

 

“I was going to be like ...Wenda the white fang and we-” she takes a deep breath then, and the force it takes nearly makes her surrender to the dark, “we would ride together…”

 

“We will. Just wait until the maester fixes you and I promise I’ll steal us a horse to go riding.” Gendry reassures her. “I’ll even try to make an effort to beat you in a race.” He tries to joke.

 

It does make her smile before she passes out. 

 

 

*/*

 

Arya’s recovery is quite quick, which surprises even herself. Apparently it was more pain than actual damage, and since everyone was smart enough to leave the arrow in, she didn’t bleed out or lose much strength. It did leave a nasty scar, and while Arya hardly ever used dresses with low necklines, it didn’t mean she felt nice about  a big ugly mark in her skin.

 

The only queen Arya ever met was Cersei Lannister, and she had been beautiful. Arya does not feel beautiful with a piece of bronze atop the mess of her braided hair. It did fit the chainmail and leather better than some jeweled golden  crown, but that didn’t make her feel better. They said Daenerys is beautiful too, as they once spoke of Nymeria’s beauty and Rhaenys and Visenya.

 

“Queens are supposed to be beautiful,” she confesses to Gendry once, when she sneaks in his tent to talk and share cheese. He has told her half a thousand times not to do so, but he don’t dare visit her tent and she needs a friend to talk to sometimes. “I don’t even have dresses.”

 

“So what? It’s not like you need them in battle.” Gendry seems more interested in eating his cheese than her opinion, but she doesn’t blame him since she knows he gets only the ration a soldier is suppose to receive. Which is never enough, no matter her efforts to feed her men properly. “Besides, it would be difficult to sneak in here in a big skirt, wouldn’t it?”

 

“You don’t understand.” She says, but sometimes she doesn’t understand herself. She _is_ a Queen, no matter how she looks. Gendry gives her a look which confirms he in fact has no clue of what she’s trying to say. “I was never a lady, I was never supposed to be a queen.”

 

“Lots of thing aren’t suppose to happen. Doesn’t mean we have a power to stop them. No matter how much we wish…” His voice trails off, and he’s looking at Arya so intensely she suddenly feels even less beautiful than before and she doesn’t even know why. “How much we wish things were different.”

 

“You’re right there.” Arya knows all about wishing things were different. _Robb was supposed to be King and defeat the Lannisters_. But Arya is Queen now, she defeated the Boltons and Freys and helped her uncle get Riverrun back and just wants to go home. She doesn’t care if Cersei drowns in her bathtub, she just wants to go back to Winterfell and the boy lord Manderly claims is Rickon in his letters. Lord Manderly will want for Rickon to be King, and young Lady Mormont won’t shut up about her mother having Robb’s will.

 

The further south Arya goes, the more she feels like the skinny ugly little girl that passed for a boy of the Night’s Watch. Gendry insist she doesn’t pass for a boy anymore just to annoy her, but he manages to make her smile during her recovery with his comments up until they reach Harrenhal. Making camp there is more difficult than anything else in the world. There are no armies guarding the monstrous castle, just poor common folk trying to survive. They give her the best rooms, but it only increases memories of Roose Bolton and Amory Lorch.

 

By the time Arya sneaks past her guards and reaches the forge, the moon is high in the sky. Gendry is beating a piece of metal, and his arms seems so strong. Arya wonders if he ever felt as hopeless and vulnerable as she did back the first time they were in Harrenhal.

 

“You going to stand there all night until you get caught?” He asks suddenly, pulling her out of her thoughts.

 

“I don’t get caught.” Is all she says before entering, getting close to the fire. “It’s nice here. Warm. When I get back to Winterfell, I will move my desk to the smithy.”

 

“Not very ladylike.” Gendry notices, before he hits the steel again. It somehow sounds less harmonious than when before she came inside.

 

“I already told you, I was never much of a lady.” Arya pulls her furs closer and walks away from the fire to look out the window. “I hate it here”, she confesses, and hears Gendry stop his hammering. “It reminds me… before Braavos I felt so-” it’s so difficult to admit, that she was so scared. That she was once a little mouse. They called her Queen of Wolves now, but Arya will always feel like a weak mouse in Harrenhal. “Aren’t queens supposed to be perfect and powerful and poised and beautiful all the time?”

 

“Never met no queens before.” Gendry says behind her. She can tell he’s walking towards her, but for some reason Arya doesn’t want to turn around and see him. Gendry always manages to look so upset when she speaks of being queen. She can’t understand why, exactly.

 

“My crown doesn’t even fit.” It seems so stupid to worry about that. But Arya thought queens were supposed to be beautiful, and even if they weren’t, at least their crowns were suppose to fit. It feels like everything about her is so wrong. “What kind of queen is ugly and has  crown that doesn’t even fit?”

 

“I can fix it for you.” Gendry says, and this time she does turn around. He’s so close now, the moonlight from the window is making his eyes even more blue.

 

“You would do that for me?” Arya’s voice is so little, it almost feel like it wasn’t hers.

 

 “I don’t think you need it to look pretty,” Gendry says so quickly she doesn’t feel the air leave her lungs, “...but I’d do it… for you.”

 

Arya feels like she’s not herself, not when her hands reach for Gendry’s face. He’s warm, but she can tell he’s not at all calm. He’s nervous, and she moves closer, somehow thinking it will calm him. His eyes are so blue, she could look at them forever. She feels her own hand travel from his face to his chest. _He’s so strong_ , she thinks. She feels herself blush, and she makes a move to hide her own face, but his hands are suddenly on her face, keeping it in place. Keeping her close to him.

 

When their lips touch, Arya lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, pressing herself against him. His body is a rock, hard arms surrounding her. His lips are not soft but neither are hers. A longing that she could not have previously described as such takes over, and Arya realises wanting to kiss him comes as natural as breathing.

 

Queens are not supposed to kiss baseborn smiths, but Arya does. She kisses Gendry, and by the time she leaves Harrenhal, her crown fits perfectly atop her head.

 

*/*

 

They leave harrenhal in a hurry. The Targaryen attacks the Lannisters, the boy with no dragons, and Arya realises her men have no business  in the south. Her dreams and prayers are filled with images of winter, and battles in the snow and she knows that the Gods are telling her to get her people back home.

 

 _They’re my pack, and I have to get them  to where we belong_. When she announces to her lords that she intents to go back, some complaint but most just agree, when she announces it to her soldiers, the shouts of “Queen in the North” sound like thunder across camp.

 

The winter is ruthless, harsh, unforgiving. Some men lose limbs from frostbite no matter how much wood they gather for fire. The soup and broth never seems to be enough to fully fill the men’s bellies. The only good part of being in the North is that men are going their own way home, and less and less are part of the march and therefore hers to feed. She knows she should try to visit some of her bannerman castles instead of using the inns of the Kingsroad…But then it’d be so difficult to sneak Gendry inside her chambers.

 

Arya feels alive in the North. She enjoys the snow, she enjoys knowing she’s getting closer to Winterfell and the boy who say might be Rickon. She enjoys not being at war and the prospect of only worrying over crops and harvest and leaving the road. She wants to go back to Winterfell and maybe visit the crypts, to talk to her father and Robb. She might even go to the sept, not to pray but to speak to her mother too. And she will get books to replace the ones that were burnt and teach Rickon all about the places she has been to.

 

Gendry seems less excited about the prospect of arriving to Winterfell, and sometimes is so hard to understand him. He seems so delighted, when she surprises him and kisses him. Gendry returns her kisses with such a fervor that it makes Arya dizzy, yet he seems of less passionate about the idea of finally settling back home.

 

“You will work as a smith if you like.” Arya would tell him, in the dead of night, curled up to his side under his furs. He’d smile, mutter ‘mayhaps’ and kiss her like crazy.

 

He’s even worse in the nights were they get carried away, when he trails kisses down her throat and his hand wander to her arse, pulling her closer until she’s flushed against him. He’s hard and strong in all the right places, and Arya finds that she craves his embrace as much as she longs for his kisses. And she loves that every night that passes he’s more certain and bold. The touches that he seemed so careful with get more intense as time goes by, and she likes to wake up feeling the bruises he left on her thigh or the mark of his teeth on her collarbone.

 

And yet, even after nights were he had rubbed himself against her until they were both pleased, he’d act shameful and disappointed.  “Queens are not meant for smiths.” He’d murmur and wouldn’t let her finish any protest before he got up to clean himself.

 

The closer they were to Winterfell, the more it seemed he was reluctant to cross the ultimate line. It didn’t matter that she’d beg him, with his tongue in her cunt, grasping her sheets until her fingers hurt. It made no case if she explained to him that she didn’t mind at all where he came from. It mattered to him, and Arya couldn’t fight that. It should upset her, that as a queen she’d still have to beg for him to love her like she wants to, but she knows is more than that to him.

 

Queens do not always get what their want.

 

*/*

 

Arya sleeps with Rickon tucked at her side her first five days in Winterfell. She had outran every horsed men on her haste to pass the gates, and she once inside she was greeted by no other than Shaggydog leaping towards her. The beast had nearly thrown her off the horse, but he wanted no more than to lick her as a puppy would its sister.

 

Rickon was no different. She understood the rumours about him, but she saw right through the fake aggressiveness. She knew what is was like to grow up in fear and violence, and when it was just the two of them she could see the sweet boy that followed their mother around. He does not know his letters, and his manners need polishing, but she sees in him the goodness and honor of their father.

 

For five days, the Queen in the North does not visit her paramour, and she knows the whispers of the people are that she will finally settle, leave the smith behind and look for a husband. Arya sits down with her trusted council, and Rickon, and reads the letters that arrive to her. Sansa, alive in the Vale, planning to come home. Jon, speaking of magic and death, planning to come home and prepare for the real war. News from the south, and the arrival of dragons.

 

They talk long and hard her bannermen, and she takes Rickon with her to pray, to hear Bran’s voice in the wind telling her he will come home too, telling her to prepare for the real war. She sends orders to prepare, for the harsh winter, to feed her people, to remain strong.

 

It was dragons the North knelt to centuries ago, and it was dragons Queen Arya would kneel to, nothing else.

 

She finds Gendry in his quarters in the smithy. She’d smile at his situation, no matter his hardheadedness, he’s still there, smithing in Winterfell. But she didn’t come here to smile. She closes the door behind her, and he looks at her expectantly.

 

“I am Arya Stark.” she says as she steps closer to him. “I am Queen of the North and the Riverlands.” She hardly has to put any force to her push for him to sit on the bed. “I will not be refused.”

 

She’s wearing a dress, which is convenient when it comes to shaking her clothes off. She’s not sure he has ever seen her completely naked, but she refuses to be ashamed. He takes off his breeches with ease, and when she sits atop of him, she feels as comfortable as if she her riding a horse.

 

“Arya, we-” She cuts him off with a kiss, and she doesn’t care if she’s not soft. She doesn’t give a damn if they shouldn’t, if it was improper, if it wasn’t what a lady was suppose to be. Just because she was a queen didn’t mean she had to behave like a lady.

 

She reaches between them and feels him already half hard in her palm. When her hand engulfs him, he wastes no time in kissing her back, his own hand pushing her braid out of the way for him to touch her breasts. She feels him trail down kisses down her collarbone and to her chest as she pumps him with her hand.

 

When his teeth tease her nipples, she lets out a moan that seems to send them both over the edge. Their lips meet with eagerness, and Arya swears she feels his hand everywhere, making her feel so much, too much. She can’t help it when her hips move against him, sending a wave of pleasure that have them both groaning.

 

It seemed like Gendry had woken up from a nightmare, because he jolts and stops his ministrations to grab her by her arms and put some space between them. “Please, stop!”

 

“Don’t you want me?” Arya knows he wants it, because he’s hard as a rock underneath her, but maybe he doesn’t want her? Maybe she misunderstood, and he had only done it so she wouldn’t be angry…

 

“Don’t be stupid, Arya.” He blurts out and it makes them both smile, it stops the moment from being ruined. “Isn’t it obvious?” She shakes her head no. He has one hand behind her neck and one on her cheek, pulling her closer until their foreheads touch. Despite being naked and in such a position, Arya finds herself feeling calm and lets her eyes close as he kisses her again.

 

There is so much longing in his kiss, such a deep devotion, that Arya nearly cries, because she understands. And she feels the same, and it makes her so sad that this is a torture for him. When their lips  part, he doesn’t let their heads do the same.  “Nothing good ever comes of a bastard loving a queen.” he murmurs against her lips.

 

“I’m will not be a queen for long,” she confesses, and she feels his eyelashes as he opens his eyes. She does the same, finding the surprise in his blue eyes. “Rickon will be king, and I will be his regent. And once this Dragon Queen comes he will kneel and we will all be lords and ladies again. But before that, Rickon will give you lands near Hornwood and a title.”

 

“But-” He’s about to protest, she can tell, but she shuts him up because she’s done with him being stubborn about this.

 

“You’ve earned it. You help me when I was  girl and served my mother and myself. You were in the vanguard that helped my uncle gain his home back and have helped to the rebuilt of Winterfell like if you were a Northerner.” She says in one breath, hoping he will see that others had seen that she always saw in him. He’s more than just a bastard. And he is hers.

 

When Arya kisses him again, she feels his lips smile in delight. She pushes him back until he’s flat on her back and he laughs, he laughs like she has never seen him do before until he loses his breath because he’d inside her. And besides a little discomfort, Arya has never felt more whole in her life. It makes her ache her back, letting her fingers trail his skin. Gendry’s own hands are running up her body, giving her pleasure as he pushes his hips upwards, meeting her thrusts. 

She feels is hands travel down until the grip her hips, making her match his pace until they find a rhythm. She looks down on him and she smiles. He has some stupid look on his face that she wants to kiss away, so she does. And she buries herself on his neck as her pace is quicker and she’s saying his name in his ear so he’ll know it’s all because of him. Arya feels him come inside her, repeating her name like some kind of prayer. His own finger touch her with fervor and attention until she comes with his name on her lips.

 

She stays where she is, with him inside for for a moment.

 

“I need to clean me self, your Grace.” He says breathlessly, a cheeky smile on his lips. She punches him softly on the shoulder as she climbs off him. She throws a cloth in her face unceremoniously. “And you too, m’lady.”

 

“Don’t be stupid.” She says as she sits on the edge of the bed, “do you want me to call you milord when we fuck?”

 

Gendry barks out a laugh and kneels before her. “No, my queen, you just say my name like you did before.”

 

Arya throws the cloth in his face, and soon enough his fingers are a her ribs, tickling her until she’s quite helplessly on her back. Arya is sure this is not how queens are supposed to behave, wrestling with a lover all sweaty from sex. But Arya doesn’t mind being her own kind of Queen.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks you for reading. Reviews are love, even if they are to berate me for not updating my other fics. (btw, I hated the title but I had to put something... what would you call it?)


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